


Blazed but not with weed, more like pain that just never goes away

by SingSwan_SpringSwan



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Gen, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, Hurt Anakin Skywalker, I still am, Slave Anakin Skywalker, Slave chips + Anakin angst time, anakin has increased pain reception because of the slave chip, anakin is a five-year-old trapped in a twenty-year-old’s body, but really no one knows about it, he’s still traumatized by qui-gon’s death, obi-wan is doing his best, slave chip, they forgot to take the chip out/anakin still thinks he’s a slave just of the jedi, transmitter chip, tumblr writing prompt, who wouldn’t be tho, will add more tags if this fic grows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28917285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingSwan_SpringSwan/pseuds/SingSwan_SpringSwan
Summary: Qui-gon was the only one who knew about Anakin’s slave chip, and unfortunately, the secret died with him. Anakin doesn’t realize that none of the other Jedi aren’t aware, and while they think he’s just like them, he’s kind of still under the impression that he’s... their slave...?((AND IF THE SLAVE MINDSET WASN’T ENOUGH ANGST Y’ALL GAVE HIM CHRONIC HEIGHTENED PAIN PERCEPTION FROM THE CHIP BECAUSE TUMBLR IS FULL OF SADISTS I GUESS))
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Anakin Skywalker & Clones, Anakin Skywalker & Obi-Wan Kenobi, CT-7567 | Rex & Ahsoka Tano, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 324
Kudos: 485





	1. Haha, I’ve been impaled

**Author's Note:**

> This isn’t an original idea, so all the concepts and headcanons in this fic are based off this post from tumblr: https://newswcanonprompts.tumblr.com/post/635680542711578624/slave-chips-anakin-angst-time. 
> 
> It’s a wild blog full of loonies just like me, and the prompts are actually pretty fun. I will warn you though, there is a considerable amount of angst to sort through, so bear that in mind if you happen to drift on over. Also, I don’t know if I’m going to continue this fic, but if I do, it’s going to be an eventual fix-it because I wouldn’t be able to live with myself otherwise. Until then, ✨angsty one-shot time✨

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin hurts, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. He’s had worse, after all.

Anakin’s neck burned. The pain wasn’t obnoxious, but it was persistent, and achingly sharp. Kind of like an insect sting. The subtle, throbbing of his pulse only accented the blister every second, never letting him drop his guard, always keeping him on razor edge. The pain dragged his brows inward. They cast shadow on his tired eyes.

In spite of his discomfort, Anakin was careful to keep his shields nothing shy of perfectly sealed, even if it took about half his concentration to do so, and the effort was draining his energy like a siphon. He just had to get through this meeting, and then he could relax a little. The men weren’t Force-sensitive. They wouldn’t be able to pick up on his tension like Master Kenobi could.

It had actually been better the past couple of weeks, and Anakin thought that he was being rewarded. His last campaign had gone so smoothly, with so few casualties on both sides—what other explanation was there? The Council was obviously pleased with his success, and he was being rewarded. The pain was bearable. He could almost package it all up and push it into the Force. Just this tweak in his neck remained.

It was nothing he couldn’t handle. He’d had far worse before, after all.

_Blazing blaster bolts whizzed past Anakin’s face, causing the wall behind him to spark, leaving brilliant scorch marks wherever they landed. Anakin really needed that not to be his body. He should end up fine, of course. He was a Jedi, after all, with by far the greatest Force-sensitivity in the known galaxy. What were a few lasers against all that and a lightsaber?_

_Nothing, really, especially when his teacher was the one and only Obi-wan Kenobi._

_But Anakin couldn’t concentrate well enough to tap into the Force. His saber forms were sloppy. Layers of sweat drenched his clothes. A number of burns already littered his arms and legs, searing through his cloak, stinging with the salt from his skin. But he wasn’t focusing on a few flesh wounds. He could simply apply bacta and move on—no, that wasn’t the problem._

_His chest was on fire._

_Not literally, because that would have been a problem. But it felt like someone had taken a red-hot spear, pierced him from behind until his bones melted and his muscles cooked and all his robes were set aflame. It felt like Darth Maul killing Qui-gon, just from behind._

_And the pain was so intense, so consuming, so incapacitating that it was a wonder he could still stand, much less deflect blaster bolts, even if more clumsily than usual._

_Anakin could barely remember what he’d done. He knew they were punishing him—that was what the chip was used for, of course—but what had he done? Maybe they found the scanner bots at the bottom of his desk drawer. Maybe he’d forgotten to bow when last he’d seen a master, an act of high disrespect. Maybe he went too far meditating, disobeying his instructor by losing himself to the Force._

_Or perhaps—no, most likely—the Council was angry at his existence. Angry that he’d been forced upon them by Qui-gon, angry that he’d been trained in spite of his age, angry that he surpassed all of them in skill, power, and potential. They hadn’t asked for a scrappy slave child to join their ranks. They’d been furious at Qui-gon’s insistence, and now they despised Anakin, no doubt._

_But in spite of where he’d come from, Anakin’s usefulness had never been denied. Neither had it been extinguished. Going from shop-boy to Jedi was only a step-up in the slave ranks, he knew. The Jedi were more respectful to him, kinder as well. He had food, shelter, and good clothing. They didn’t beat him. They didn’t demean him. They didn’t ask the impossible. Their punishments were just and fair. But they had still_ won _him. He still_ belonged _to them. Even if others chose to leave the Order, and chose to turn their backs on the teachings and the Code, Anakin could not, as much as he desired to. Because he was a slave. They owned him. A single chip determined as much._

_And the fact that they continued to use it was a steady reminder that he was not free—would never be free—to choose. He had to do what they said, or else they’d hurt him. And that was easily accomplished, with a transmitter planted in his nervous system, stuck there since the time of his infancy._

_The chip was the thing causing Anakin’s current I’ve-been-impaled-by-plasma-like agony, which meant that he was certainly being punished. And it might cost him his life, if he couldn’t push through and kriffing concentrate._

_Force, Anakin was too young to die! He hadn’t even gotten the chance to see Padmé again, in his four years of Jedi training. She’d probably laugh, if she heard he was shot down by bounty hunters—and not even good ones at that. Really, this whole situation was almost laughable. A padawan, not even able to deflect lasers blasts? That was one of the most basic exercises! The Younglings knew how to do this!_

_Anakin could_ not _die in this way, it was too unimpressive. He was better, he had to be better. He knew what he was capable of, so why… why…_

 _Force he couldn’t_ concentrate _. His teeth ground together hard. Fog swirled around the edges of his eyesight, his surroundings wavered and wobbled. He needed to focus. He needed the Force._

_But the pain…_

_Kzzzat! Kzzzat! Right left, right left, right right, up, right. All he could see through the dizzying haze was bolt on bolt, and some of them didn’t stop in time, and his wrists ached, and his arms trembled, and they were still shooting at him and the wall was sparking so bad it just made Anakin’s chest burn hotter._

_Force, the pain was tearing him up—! But he wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t. Of that much he was sure. The situation might be stressful, and the agony might be white hot, but Anakin wasn’t shedding a tear, he swore it. Crying wasted water._

_He may have sobbed soundlessly a couple of times, sending new waves of torture through his upper body, but he didn’t cry._

_It was all Anakin could do to swing the saber, to deflect as many blasts as possible. No other thought crossed his mind, just that he needed to not die. He couldn’t die. He needed to get through this._

_One or two of his shots bounced back off his saber with sharp accuracy, and his number of opponents dropped—though not by much. He couldn’t win a fight like this. He couldn’t hold on forever. His arms shook. His chest screamed._

_But then a presence swept over his mind, and suddenly things weren’t so bad. He felt the shout before he heard it._

_“Anakin, get down!”_

_For once, Anakin could do nothing but obey. He dropped backwards, bending at the knees (bolts flashing over his face), as the open bay of the warehouse erupted and trapped the bounty hunters behind walls of fire._

_Anakin barely registered the noise. The sound of keening rafters and tearing metal and high, terrified shouts was all muted, and he still couldn’t focus. Now that he’d stopped moving, his body was deciding to shut down. He couldn’t feel his arms. His skull was going to split open. And his entire chest, shoulders to waist, was swimming in lava. The pain was so bright, so hot, he should have passed out by now, or at least gone numb, but his nerves weren’t actually burning, dying, so they continued to scream at him louder and louder until the pain was all he heard._

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. _They said_. This is all wrong.

_And Anakin stared at the ceiling and tried not to cry._

So a little sting below his jaw was nothing he couldn’t handle. Just a mere nuisance, really. And Anakin was _glad_ it was there. He _was_. Because the pain could be so much worse, he could be almost incapacitated right now, but he wasn’t, and he was thankful. They were rewarding him.

But this meeting was dragging on, and it was just the slightest bit hard to focus with his neck set ablaze. He could talk stats, he just didn’t _want_ to. He’d much rather be in the mess with his men, or back in his quarters meditating, or even on the bridge with plot bunnies and wild schemes rambling from his mouth (and Yularen grumbling for him to shut up). But here, in the conference room, with Master Kenobi less than a body-length to his side, and a brand steaming against his neck, Anakin didn’t have the luxury of what he _wanted_ —when was the last time he’d gotten what he wanted? (We never do things my way.)

Yes, it was selfish, and bratty to think like that. Very un-Jedi-like. Anakin had to consciously check his feelings in that manner. He had a _good_ life. He had people who took care of him. People who fed him, clothed him, gave him a purpose. Sure, their punishments were severe, and the pain never really went away, but at least he deserved it, between his reckless behavior and spirited personality. He was _far_ from compliant, so he could understand the consequences. He brought this upon himself. He had no reason to be upset.

Other slaves had it _so much worse_. Anakin had a good life. Really. He shouldn’t complain about a little discomfort in his neck.

“General Skywalker, is that the last of the files?”

Anakin brought a hand to his chin in thought, forcing his focus back to the holo on the table. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

“I’m finished also.” Obi-wan added. He looked so at ease, standing there with his shoulders comfortable, a soft smile bringing his lips up. Hints of exhaustion were obvious in his features and posture, but that was expected in this war, and at least he was taking it like a champ. At least he was relaxed in spite of it.

“Alright Sir, I’ll finish the report, and have it sent to you by the beta shift.”

“Thanks, Commander.”

That finally seemed to conclude their conference, and the officers slowly started trickling from the room.

Anakin squinted and tilted his head to the side. Such an angle made his nerves shriek, but he was used to the sensation, and he barely noticed. The Force would take care of it.

“I’ll have to get back to the _Negotiator_ before mess tonight.” Obi-wan was saying. He smiled freely, approaching Anakin with a certain ease that made his face kind. “Always good to see you, old friend.” His hand came down firm, clapping Anakin’s shoulder in a gesture of familiarity.

(The jolt was a shock of pain.)

Anakin couldn’t hate this man. He obviously cared, to some extent.

 _But not enough to free you_. A soft voice in the back of his head whispered sinister little words(it was getting louder every day). Anakin ignored it. Or did his best, at least.

“Yeah, you too, Master.”

Obi-wan smiled again, patted his shoulder.

And Anakin meant what he said. It _was_ nice to see his old Master, even if it was over a holotable covered in strategies. The man’s presence was strong, solid, and sure—almost grounding, like a firm glow of light. Sometimes it helped Anakin focus, when the pain was particularly intense. Had maybe even saved his life, more than once.

_“Anakin! Anakin, are you alright?”_

_Anakin felt a familiar presence wash over him, warm, and strong, and reassuring. It reached out and surrounded him, like so much water, like an ocean of surety, and Anakin took comfort from it as best he could through his catatonic state. He latched on, tempted to let a few tears fall. With all that water, maybe it was okay… maybe it was safe…_

_“Come on, Anakin, we’re not out of this yet!” Obi-wan dropped down at his side._

_Anakin noted little of his master’s appearance. He still couldn’t focus. At least his master had found him, and he wasn’t alone anymore, and the blasters had stopped and the wall wasn’t sparking even if his chest was still… was still…_

_“Master,” Anakin breathed out, voice raw and hoarse. The one word wobbled dangerously, precariously, so unsteady and weak that Anakin had just enough cognizance to reprimand himself before Obi-wan could._

_“Come on, Padawan. We need to go.”_

_But Anakin couldn’t move. The pain was fighting for domination of his every thought, and the only thing holding it at bay enough for Anakin to see straight was the ocean of light, flooding in through the bond. He clung to the light desperately, so desperately, so afraid that if he let go, the pain would drag him down and something inside him would snap._

_“I need you to get up. We’ve got to get out of here, before those savages recover.”_

_Anakin clawed at the light, pulled on it, willed it to surround him, dove far beneath the waves, trying to extinguish the flames. It was working. Was it working? It wasn’t working fast enough._

_Anakin wasn’t going to cry._

_When he still didn’t move, Obi-wan grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him upright._

_It took every last drop of Anakin’s willpower not to scream, when it felt like millions of melting pins plunged into his flesh and_ dragged _. His mouth fell open, and the smallest breath puffed out. Stars exploded in his eyes._

_“What’s wrong, Young one?”_

_Air. He needed to breathe._

_A broken, jagged thread of breath snaked its way down Anakin’s throat, and as soon as he’d swallowed, he wished he could spit it back out. Everything hurt now. Everything hurt, and his chest was swimming in lava, and he was trying so hard to just hold on to the light, and his lips floundered and failed to make words for quite some time._

_But Obi-wan was patient, and he waited until Anakin answered._

_“It hurts, Master.” Anakin choked. He wasn’t sure why he was complaining. Obviously, this was his punishment and Obi-wan was his master—he could connect the dots—but it did hurt, and he wasn’t thinking straight. “It—i-it_ hurts _.”_

_The words sounded so pathetic, so sniveling and childish, Anakin wanted to swallow them back in. It wasn’t like they relieved his pain, anyway. Only the ocean was helping with that._

_But Obi-wan didn’t understand. He nodded sympathetically. “Yes, laser burns are quite the nuisance. Don’t worry, we’ll have you all patched up when we get back to the ship—but we really must go_ now _.”_

_It wasn’t just a request anymore. It was a direct order. Anakin had to obey, disregard to his comfort, to his preferences, to his physical wellbeing. He didn’t want to agree, because the mere thought of moving was enough to shoot another round of sparks in his eyes, but Obi-wan was ordering him to get up. Obi-wan expected him to get up._

_So Anakin got up. He rallied all of his energy, and anchored himself as far below the waves of the sea as his inferno of a body would allow. The pain hissed and spat and blazed right on, but Anakin grit his teeth and blinked away the sparks and fueled his limbs with water made of light._

_Obi-wan smiled approvingly, and helped Anakin to his feet. “Good job, Padawan.” He said._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, that was sad. Anakin deserves better smh. I’m disappointed in myself. Why did I write this?


	2. He protecc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin goes kaboom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s short, I had schoolwork(ish)

Ah, Torrent and their explosions. Hardcase must be having a field day. In fact, Anakin could sense the excitement blaring through the Force, and it was hard not to be swept up in the action. That being said, obviously, Anakin was being a little crazy. He didn’t feel like blaming himself.

Bombs were exploding left and right, dirt and blaster bolts were flying, the very taste of the air was charged. Anakin’s body was surging with adrenaline. His focus was laser sharp. The noise and chaos of battle caused his body to ache with familiarity, and it filled his head and drowned out all thoughts not:  _ protect, advance, win _ .

Somewhere on the ridge above, he could faintly hear Ahsoka’s confident voice, surveying and commanding the men (he’s so proud of his padawan). Under her guise, they were actually coming close to wrapping this up in record time—which Anakin might have been able to pull off if the opposing side wasn’t milking their special weaponry. Some strange cannons, hidden in the fog, firing rudimentary—really barbaric—ammunition that was dealing the battalion heavy losses.

Another round of shells rained down. 

Anakin leapt forward to avoid the shrapnel, and in the act, his ankles ripped open. A knife plunged into his calf. It  _ twisted _ . But Anakin kept his footing. Most of the pain was concentrated in his legs today—which was a little odd because it was usually his upper body, where he assumed his chip to be—but that was fine. It wasn’t like he was physically injured, or unfit (I can still work. I’m still useful. Please don’t decommission me). He had other stuff to worry about: namely the shells.

Really, they were the only annoying things. While most bombs the battalion encountered were flashes—more like blasts of energy—these one literally cracked apart, spraying tiny little pieces in all directions. The company had figured that out pretty fast. A good number of men were already punched full of debris, and Anakin was putting all of his effort into taking out those cannons before the medics got bogged under. Tactics like these were downright brutal. They kept everyone on their toes. If Obi-wan were here, he’d be muttering about what a savage his grandfather was. How uncivilized.

“General!”

Dirt curtained over their heads. Anakin ducked. By the nearest bank, one of the sergeants waved him down, head low, binocs clutched tight in one hand. His gun arm gestured in a compact little circle. He was surrounded by a cluster of shinies (clean, white armor, shone like beacons in the fog). 

“What’s up, Miller?” Anakin shouted back, skirting around the deep cavities with as much agility as his stupid legs would allow. “How’s it looking?”

The sergeant dropped into the crater as another  _ boom _ made the ground shake. Anakin slid in beside him.

“That’s the next closest cannon, Sir!” Miller pointed over the lip of the crater to the machine scarring the cloud-ridden field, standing fewer than a hundred meters away. Every seven seconds, it would be loaded again and ready to fire.

“There’s another somewhere in all this fog, but we can’t worry about it until we take care of this one! I have a few charges left. I was thinking of sending Tab and Docker here—” He gestured to the troopers at his side. “On over with the payload—”

But Anakin was one step ahead of the sergeant. Send two men out of the only cover on the battlefield? Give them a bag full of explosives, send them out of the only cover? Send Tab and Docker into a net of lasers and blaster bolts? For a suicide errand? No way. Anakin would be damned if he did that consciously. He wasn’t going to let a couple of shinies get blasted to bits just to neutralize a war machine. That wasn’t his style.

_ He _ could take care of it. Now that he’d located the cannon, it was a straight shot, and he’d been getting pretty good at aiming, recently.

“YA YEET!”

Miller stuttered, and his arm dropped.

The group of them watched in surprise as Anakin’s lightsaber went flipping through the air, carrying enough momentum to appear as a single cerulean streak. The blade sliced easily through the cannon’s heavy armor. Enough damage rendered the thing dysfunctional, and pretty soon, all of it was collapsing on the ground with a loud, metallic shriek. It was just enough to prevent it from firing again, but not enough to trigger the shells, and cause the ammunition to explode. Anakin felt the Force sing.

He turned to the troopers with some mild pride his smile. Never mind that he’d just thrown away his weapon, or that he’d have to fight without it until he could make his way over there. He just took out a cannon by throwing his lightsaber, and he was a little happy about that.

“Keep the charges.” He said, and then Tab and Docker were looking at him through their visors with awe. Like he was some kind of hero. Miller was probably going to tattle to Rex, who would likely snitch to Obi-wan (“General Skywalker threw his lightsaber away again” “how many times do I have to tell him…”), and then Anakin was going to have fun teaming up with Cody about how often Obi-wan lost his  _ own _ saber. Today was going great. Well, aside from the pain, but who was counting that? (Not Anakin).

Of course, he should have known the ficklety of good times. He felt the Force keen, and his limbs went cold (it was such a profound noise). His smile dropped at the speed of his blood. He’d forgotten about the last cannon.

“Scatter—” He shouted at the men, pushed Miller out of the crater and  _ away _ , then he could hear the shell instead of feel it, and  _ oh kriff it’s coming right at us _ . There were seconds, seconds before the shrapnel hit.

Anakin shoved outward with his hands, with his mind, willed the Force to explode around him, to get those men out of the landing site. Then he jumped after them, or tried to, but  _ pain in his legs _ .  _ Knives in his feet _ . He staggered. He hesitated. His eyes went wide, the sky whistled, and then—then—

“GENERAL!”

Stars on a flickering cosmos, brilliant, and sudden, and over in a snap. Then the battlefield swelled in crescendo, and Anakin wasn’t dead at all—kriffing hells.

Sharp, high, screaming in his ears. Wet and warm  _ something _ running down his neck, down his back, filling up his mouth, tasting like the metal of machines. Not that he could taste it. Not that any of his senses were working, save maybe feel. He could feel quite a bit. He could feel a lot, and he didn’t like it, didn’t want to feel—wished, not for the first time, that he could just be numb all over—he couldn’t tell the difference between punishment pain and injury pain because all of it was blending together. All of it felt like  _ knives _ , serrated, jagged, scraping knives, in his back, in his legs, in his body everywhere. Blades in his skin, shrapnel in his flesh.

His nose burned. Ash and dirt stung his nose, made it burn. He couldn’t smell the wet dribbling into the crater, and at least he had that going for him. The ground beneath his body hummed. Voices smacked his head from one end of the planet to the other. All this feeling, all this pain… this pain just  _ never goes away _ .

“ _ GENERAL _ !”

Anakin couldn’t see, either. Everything was dark.


	3. Knife-work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kix doesn’t get paid enough.
> 
> A very special shoutout to maximumsuckage for letting me use their OC, Jakka, for this chapter! Y’all should totally go check out the story, “Space Dad Lives” the writing is so quality, and the story is absolutely phenomenal 😌 it makes my cold, dead heart feel again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE (mostly just blood but it is pretty explicit) READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. 
> 
> Side note: definitely don’t look up images of shrapnel wounds unless you want nightmares for days. You’re not missing anything.

_ “It’s not your fault!” Anakin said again. “I’m fine! I’m fine, really! See?” It was kind of odd that he was comforting the girl who had sliced his leg, but she was in tears, and it wasn’t her fault. _

_ He wanted to reach for her. He wanted to reach out and maybe put an arm around her shoulders, but both his hands were clamped around his shin, glistening a nasty bright red. She probably wouldn’t appreciate getting blood smeared on her clothes. _

_ “N-no, Anakin, you’re not!” She blubbered. Her hands were shaking horribly, held half-way between her face and the bottom of her tunic, frozen, like she was horrified by what she was seeing. It  _ was _ a lot of blood, but Anakin was used to being hurt, so it wasn’t really that bad. _

_ “Hey, crying wastes water.” He said. But it may not have been the right thing. _

_ She just sobbed harder. Honestly,  _ Anakin _ was the one injured! Why was she so upset? _

_ It wasn’t even her fault. Anakin was the one who had suggested they use knives instead of training sabers, and Anakin was the one who had messed up his footing and stepped right into her line of strike. It wasn’t her fault at all. At least if they’d still been practicing katas like Knight Ti told them, instead of sparring and goofing off like Anakin wanted to, they wouldn’t be in this situation. Anakin was the one who had been bored. _

_ “Anakin, there’s s-so much… b-bloo-od…” _

_ Anakin squeezed his fingers tighter and gritted his teeth. If only he knew how to Force-heal, then this wouldn’t be so messy. _

_ “I’ll be okay.” He insisted. _

_ “No you won’t! This is—this is bad. This is really really bad! I—we have to tell someone! I’m comming Obi-wan!” _

_ Anakin’s head jerked up. “No! Jakka, don’t!” _

_ “But you’re hurt!” _

_ Anakin shook his head, pulled his hands away from his leg, tried to stand. “No, no I’m fine! I-I can still work!” His heart beat, and blood sprayed from the gash in his flesh to stain the grassy floor. His leggings were ruined; Anakin thanked the Force he’d taken his boots off before they sparred. _

_ Jakka shrieked, high and wild. _

_ “Obi-wan!” She shouted. Tears ran down her face in little rivers. She didn’t seem to realize her commlink was still off. “Obi-wan, help!” _

_ Anakin wobbled on his feet and tried to reach her. “No, please don’t tell him! Please!”  _

_ Obi-wan had only been his master for a year. No master would appreciate their slave being so reckless, being injured, and because it was Anakin, because it was  _ Obi-wan _ , this was such a stupid way to get hurt. Obi-wan would never have gotten his leg sliced in a simple sparring match. For that matter, Obi-wan would never have been using knives to begin with. He would be so disappointed. He might even be angry. He might punish Anakin, if he was mad enough—turn up the stinging in his chest—make it really painful— _

_ It was just a  _ cut _. Anakin was  _ fine _. He didn’t need anyone to know. _

_ If they knew, they might think less of him. And that was very dangerous for a slave. _

_ “I’m okay, Jakka! There’s nothing wrong with me!” His own tears threatened to spill over, and that made Anakin mad because he could  _ handle _ this, and crying wasted water, and he wasn’t some weak, pathetic, useless little boy. He was a Jedi. Jedi didn’t lose sleep over some simple little scratch; Jedi were strong. He was strong. He was  _ valuable _. _

_ “It’s just a cut! Please—don’t tell anyone. I can still fight—I can still—I’m not damaged—” _

_ “But we HAVE TO tell someone!” Jakka screamed, screamed so loud, why didn’t the whole Temple hear and come running? She sniffled and snuffled and her face was all wet with wasted water and her hands were tight fists straight down at her sides. She was standing on the knife and didn’t seem to notice.  _

_ The force of her yell was so powerful that Anakin sat down in the soggy grass, trembling, dizzy. He still shook his head hard, adamant. _

_ “I can’t.” He whimpered. “I can’t. Th-they won’t want me—” He was being such a brat, such a whiny, pathetic lifeform. Obi-wan would never react like this. Obi-wan would be all calm and collected, and he would know exactly what to do. _

But Obi-wan isn’t here _. A small voice sneered in Anakin’s head, and he was grateful for the reminder. He had to fix this before Obi-wan found out. He wasn’t a little kid anymore; he had to suck it up and start being stronger. _

_ “Jakka,” He sniffled, then twisted his mouth down, disgusted with how weak he sounded. He swallowed, even though it hurt. _

_ “I-It’s okay, I can fix this.” _

_ “How?” She demanded. _

_ Anakin lifted his bloody hand and pointed to the edge of the clearing, where the training sabers had been abandoned in the grass. “Will you bring one over?” _

_ Her shrill gasp echoed. “Anakin! Y-you’re not going to—I mean—it’s not that bad—” _

_ Anakin scowled at her. “I’m not gonna chop my leg off, doofus!” The mean words left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he felt bad when her eyes brimmed and her lips started wobbling again. She was only a year older than him. He had to take it easy. Through his teeth, he made his voice a little nicer. “It’s just a trick I saw Mom use, back on Tatooine, if some of the slaves got whipped and bled really bad… ‘Cept this time it’ll work better, because we can get bacta.” _

_ With wide eyes, and trembling limbs, Jakka stepped off the knife and darted to grab one of the training sabers. The old blade spat as she ignited it, but Anakin wasn’t worried. He took it from her and willed his hands not to shake (he could wash the blood off it later). _

_ “Anakin, w-what are you doing?” _

_ Anakin clenched his jaw tight, held the blade over the slice in his flesh. “I think it’s called copperizing, or catering, maybe. It’s supposed to s-seal… seal the wound…” _

_ He could feel the heat of the saber as it hovered mere centimeters from his skin. The nerves in his leg quailed, and he was afraid to do it, because he knew it was going to hurt. He hesitated, heart loud in his ears. _

_ He didn’t really  _ want _ to do it. He wanted Obi-wan to be there, shaking his head with an amused smile that made everything alright, wanted him to wipe the blood away on his cloak sleeve and tell Anakin to “be more careful Padawan, please”. _

But Obi-wan isn’t here _. _

_ And he wouldn’t do those things, anyway, wouldn’t comfort a clumsy slave. He would only be disappointed. _

_ So steeling himself, Anakin lowered the ancient, sparking sword and pressed it to his wound. _

_ Tears burst into his eyes (he refused to let them fall), a cry burst from his throat. Anakin sobbed from the burn, fiercely bit down on his lip to muffle the noise, willed his hands to hold the now-slippery hilt in place.  _

_ His leg hissed in the most awful way. Steam curled up from his skin. _

_ It  _ hurt _. It hurt  _ so much _. _

_ But all it took was Anakin’s imagination to keep the saber there until he couldn’t feel it anymore: the image of Obi-wan’s angry eyes, the thought of the Council looking down in disgust at this  _ weak little slave with sloppy fighting skills and a pathetic tolerance for pain _ — _

_ Anakin’s skin bubbled, blistering as he slowly traced the saber down the cut. The blood sizzled, the flesh seared together, just like it was supposed to. It would have been mostly okay to deal with. Sure, the pain was numbing, and scary, and downright tortuous, but Anakin was used to it. And the sight was revolting, and horrifying, and absolutely graphic, but the smell was so much worse. Anakin could feel the way his muscles spasmed under the heat, could literally feel the tension in his skin as it crisped and crackled, but the smell was sick, and nauseating, and Anakin was going to have bad dreams about it for a long time. _

_ That was the last straw for Jakka. Her pretty lavender skin turned a miserable shade of raincloud, and she barely had time to crawl back before she was convulsing on the grass, heaving all her stomach on the ground, sobbing and crying and clearly overwhelmed. She vomited everything at the sight of his damaged body. She drooled from her nose and her mouth, tormented, scarred, in all likelihood. It wasn’t everyday that a sheltered Jedi child would witness something so brutal, so horrifying, so natural of slave-culture.  _

_ Anakin felt bad. He hadn’t meant for their lightsaber practice to end up this way. He really hadn’t meant for her to see, to get so upset. At least the worst part was over. _

_ With a shaky flick of his wrist, he shut the saber off. _

_ “S-s-sorry-y, Jakka-a.” He said, words broken. “Guess I s-should have warned you first.” _

_ Her eyes were so wide, so afraid, so full of tears. “You burned it.” She rasped out, and somehow her voice was steadier than his. “You burned it.” _

_ She didn’t understand why he couldn’t have just… gone to the healers, why he couldn’t have just… told his master what happened,  _ gotten help _. But that was probably a good thing, Anakin thought, because if she couldn’t handle the smell of pain she couldn’t even feel, then she wasn’t ready to know. _

_ There was safety in value. And an injured worker— _ a damaged slave _ —was often of little value. Why would you ever tell your master how worthless you were? Might as well walk yourself up to the auction block. _

_ “Yeah, it helps stop the bleeding.” _

_ She turned her glassy eyes to him, horrified. _

_ Anakin felt uncomfortable under that haunted gaze. Maybe he could make it up to her. _

_ “Um, c-come on. We should probably go wash this stuff off before anyone notices.” _

_ By some miracle, they staggered to their feet. Anakin gathered his waning energy and called the Force to his leg. He couldn’t feel it really, anymore, so he needed help to keep his balance. Jakka darted her arm under one of his. Shaking, they picked up the weapons: the two bloody lightsabers, the two bloody knives. _

_ Thank the Force for running water. _

_ It never stopped amazing Anakin, how the Jedi were so rich, so wealthy, they could afford to have a garden built inside— _ inside _ —their Temple, with clean water running through it, just for decoration. Most slaves on Tatooine would have to die before they saw something like this. _

_ Today, it was serving a more practical use. _

_ Anakin and Jakka splashed into the cheerful little stream. It slowly turned red as they sank further, bathing their hands, their clothes, but they did their best to ignore it, because the sight was unpleasant. All traces of the gore were soon swept away: a good thing about running water, it didn’t stay bloody, it sort of just… moved on. Anakin felt it wash relief over him. _

_ In the water, his leg didn’t look so bad. They could fit a bacta patch over it, fit a pair of leggings over it, and no one ever had to know. _

_ Anakin sat in the stream for a while. He wanted his hands to stop shaking before he exited. Couldn’t he indulge himself a little bit longer, if nobody was going to find out? He knew it was selfish, but the water felt so good. _

_ Jakka splashed the tears from her face, even as they continued to well. Again and again. She bit her lip, tugged at her lekku, sat in the stream beside him and whimpered. _

_ “I’m sorry, Anakin,” She cried weakly, softly. _

_ But Anakin didn’t blame her, and she had to know that. Had to realize that he should have been better, shouldn’t have messed up so bad, shouldn’t have let her watch. He shouldn’t have been so kriffing helpless, so pathetic, and afraid. He should have been stronger. He should have kept it together, because it had been his mistake, not hers.  _

_ “It’s okay.” He told Jakka with a small, exhausted smile. “It wasn’t your fault.” _

  
  


Anakin came to in a flurry of blacks and whites, so chaotic they should have just smashed together and made gray. His head rang with fading reverberations. The sensation kind of reminded him what a bell felt like, after you strike hard with a hammer.

He groaned, forcing his eyes to open. Black to white. Everything was white. The walls, the bedframe, the smell of the air in the room. Blank, and white, and glaring so profoundly that Anakin’s head started to pound without being asked.

Where was he? What happened? Why did his body feel like it was upside down, chest first?

Then the agony slammed into him like a full-grown bantha, crushing him completely from his shoulders to his legs. Anakin was dizzy with a lack of breath, lack of sense, and all he knew in a second was  _ PAIN PAIN PAIN _ , like a wailing siren in his head.

But if he was in danger, he couldn’t let the crippling weight of his torture keep him down. He had to get up. Had to figure out where he was.

And some things were starting to filter in through his battered senses. Voices bubbled around him, frantic and familiar. The scent of the room wasn’t  _ white _ , it had a real name. Bacta, disinfectant, and blood. Old blood, new blood, blood so wrong it smelled like dirt and lightning and explosives.

There was blood on the floor: a steadily growing puddle of it. Anakin couldn’t tell completely, but he was pretty sure it was coming from him. He could feel the trickle flowing down his shoulders. He could see blurry little drops jumping from his skin, exploding on the pristine tile beneath his face. They scattered like tiny red flecks of shrapnel.

_ Shrapnel _ .

The men. Ahsoka, in a fog-ridden battlefield. What had happened? Were they alright? Anakin had to know!

He gathered his arms beside his chest and tried to push up, but the voices suddenly sharpened into something he could really hear.

“ _...no… no no! He’s waking up! Help me—someone hold him down!” _

Hands grabbed Anakin’s wrists and pushed him flush against the table—it wasn’t a bedframe. It was slippery, and cold. And the pain was enough to make anyone else black out. But to Anakin, there was too much white in the room for that.

It occurred to him that he could reach out with the Force. It wasn’t a conscious thought, more like instinct. But the pain sharpened his ability, so he spread his mind in a mess, and almost sobbed in relief when he recognized the people standing around him.

“Kix,” He rasped. “Kix, what’s going on?”

He felt another hand grip his ankle—in a comforting way, and he thought it was odd that its owner hadn’t gone for his shoulder. What was wrong with his shoulder? The bad thing about heightened pain perception was that you couldn’t pinpoint exact locations. Not very well, at least. Everything hurt. But the blood  _ was _ coming down Anakin’s neck, dribbling from his jaw to the floor, making the table slick under his chest. So did that mean…

“Don’t worry, Sir,” Said Kix’s voice, sounding very worried. “We’re getting you anesthesia.  _ Now, please— _ ”

Anakin jerked against the hands at that word. 

_ Anesthesia. _

Sleep drugs, daze drugs, knock-you-out drugs. Slaver’s remedy. Narcotic. Numbing agent. Take away all you can feel, replace it with cannon-cover fog. Surely to Kix, a medic, anesthesia meant a patient without pain. To Anakin, a Jedi, anesthesia meant he couldn’t have the Force.

It was like losing a limb, if that limb was part of your brain, or your soul, or the very essence of who you were.

“No,” Anakin croaked, and struggled, even though moving made him dizzy, and made his tortured body groan. “Don’t.”

“All due respect, Sir, that’s not your call to make.”

“You can’t!” Anakin cried, hysterical. He couldn’t go to sleep. He couldn’t lose the only thing tethering him to reality. If he lost the Force, if he succumbed to the pain, would he ever wake up? Would he ever be himself again? “Please, don’t—I’m fine, I—”

“General Skywalker!” Kix shouted.

The room was too white (too red).

“You’re  _ not _ fine—please, just… just… you’re full of shrapnel! You’re bleeding out! Please, your neck, your shoulders—the pain itself was supposed to incapacitate you—”

“I can handle it.” Anakin insisted. And he could, really. The pain wasn’t actually the worst he’d ever felt. He’d definitely had worse before. The problem was the dizziness, the way the room swam. All the whites blurred together, even though Anakin was only face-down on a table, staring at his puddle covering the floor. His tongue felt thick and heavy. The words fumbled out of his mouth. “Just don’t put me under. Please, don’t drug me.”

“I have to take the shrapnel out!”

“Then  _ kriffing do it _ !”

“Sir, w-we can’t risk giving him the dosage. His blood pressure—it’s too low—”

“Thank the Force,” Anakin mumbled to himself, almost overcome with relief. He might even have smiled, if it had been appropriate. It wasn’t. The pain was far too insistent for him to do much besides suffer.

Crying wasted water. And at the rate Anakin was losing blood, he couldn’t afford to waste water (not that he wasn’t tempted). He wouldn’t cry at the terrified noise Kix made. He wouldn’t cry at the not knowing whether Miller was okay. He would not cry at the burning blade that cut into his shoulders and pried a single shard of metal loose because crying wasted water and a slave could be many things but only dead slaves were wasteful.

The longer he lay there, struggling to keep the tears in, the more aware he became of the injury pain. He could feel it curl around his upper body. Each point turned into a fleck of molten lava, bubbling in red pools, red rivers, spilling over and down to the table, where it oozed and splashed and splattered on the floor. 

The worst of the heat bit into Anakin’s left shoulder. A million pricks of fire burrowed into his skin, tore at his flesh, clawed and ripped and mauled the crook of his neck. The more he moved, the faster he could feel them worming their way in. They crawled deeper, leaving bloody geysers as they went. Anakin stayed still. (He hadn’t been so still since he’d cowered in a dark closet, afraid of being found)

Down over his back, the fire sprayed, stabbing between his shoulder blades.

It hurt—kriff, didn’t it always hurt?—and Anakin was so dizzy he didn’t know how much longer he could stay awake. The only thing that kept him from spiraling out was his feeble grip on the Force. Its old presence was comforting, in spite of everything else. Anakin could feel the high anxiety of the signatures around him, and that was something of a reassurance as well. They were okay, or they would be. He’d never exceeded at calming down, but he tried his best to send waves of affirmation, because they would do their jobs well, he knew.

_ He trusted Kix _ .

Even if all the passing seconds were living hell. Even if Anakin wanted to vomit at every wet  _ pop _ of debris, pried from under his skin. Even if he was so dizzy, the deep crimson of his own blood was starting to look pink against the white of the floor.

What else was he supposed to do, after all? Should he not trust the one person whose only function was to help him? Kix wasn’t a healer, he was a  _ medic _ . And Anakin could feel him in the Force, could feel his worry, his fear, his determination. He wasn’t hidden, or closed off, he was  _ there _ . And he  _ wanted to help _ . (He didn’t want anything from Anakin).

The Force hummed in the room. Anakin clung to it with an iron grip. He needed it desperately, as his mind broke over again, to hold his body still, keep him from slipping under the red, under the black of his unconsciousness. He couldn’t lose himself. He had to stay  _ focused _ . He had to stay awake, no matter how badly he was tempted. 

What felt like hours crawled past (though it couldn’t have been so long, because Anakin would definitely be bled dry by then). 

People crowded around his drowning table, their hands chasing the fiery scalpel with thick pads of gauze, pressing down firmly, so tightly, trying to keep the life inside his body. Every now and then, a scanner would beep, telling Kix where next to press his blade (he needed something to help him see. Naked eyes wouldn’t cut it, not with this mess, not through all the red).

Each incision was deeper than the last.

Anakin poured himself into the Force, wrapped it around him, clawed it to him, willed it into his soul, just to keep his hands from shaking. He wasn’t going to cry. He had to be strong. He could get through this—he  _ could _ . He had to. Had to. Had to.

Good slaves didn’t die. Slaves didn’t buckle at a little pain. Slaves could handle fire on their back (Anakin had the scars to prove it). This was manageable. This was fine. This could be fixed. And it was nothing to cry over.

Kix’s voice sharpened, raw, strained. It had been speaking, intermittently, but the exhaustion was now evident, and the sound wasn’t going to make Anakin cry.

“This is it. This is the last one.”

A clicking noise. The scanner beeped. 

“ _ Kriff _ .” Kix’s voice sounded strangled.

“Sir?”

“It’s— _ kriff _ !—it’s in his spinal cord! I-I—oh kriffing hells,”

For the first time since Anakin woke up, the room dropped into silence. He was dizzy, so incoherent that even the pain was fuzzed around the edges, but he could still understand what Kix meant. He could still hear the untamed panic in his medic’s words, the cold, hard fear—so much of it. He was so afraid of failing. He was so afraid of making a mistake, making just one mistake and ruining Anakin permanently. Even if the idea of lasting immobility sounded somewhat appealing in an idealistic sense, Anakin knew with even more certainty that he couldn’t afford to be damaged (what use was a damaged slave?). And he knew that Kix was more than capable of fixing him.

“Take it out.” Anakin croaked. “Kix, you can do it. Please.”

“Sir, if I make even one mistake—”

“ _ You can do it _ .”

Anakin wrapped his waning concentration around the words and pushed them through the Force. He had to give his confidence, his trust, his energy into the insistence, had to get his medic to understand. He had to have a little faith.

Then, a small smile was alright. “I can’t… can’t just leave shrapnel in my spine, right?”

“On your life, General.” Kix snapped back, and that seemed to do the trick. They were all sacrificing something for this. Kix gave up his insecurity—at least, on the outside, but it worked well enough, because his hands weren’t trembling anymore.

Then the knife was slowly cutting into Anakin’s back, his spine, and oh,

_ Oh _ .

This. 

_ This _ was the new worst.

Nothing as before. Nothing this bad, this excruciating, this… this…

Anakin was seeing stars. Heck, he saw the whole kriffing galaxy. The fire of a small sun, piercing through his bones. Like a planet killer, firing lasers into his body. There was no breath to scream out (as  _ badly _ as Anakin wanted to scream). He promised himself he wouldn’t cry.

He  _ promised _ . He promised! He… he… he had to stay still. Had to let Kix… had to… but it was so hard to think, to cling to the Force, grip slipping fast and leaving Anakin more afraid than he had any right to be.

It hurt. A lot.

Anakin wanted to cry but he promised himself he wouldn’t. He wanted to scream and sob and beg for anesthesia, he wanted to be held and comforted, to be soothed, even if he didn’t deserve it. He was being selfish, and weak, and it  _ hurt _ , Force almighty. Crying wasted water.  _ Crying wasted _ —

Something snapped.

Something inside Anakin literally snapped, and for a breath of time, everything froze in place, like tipping before a fall. Then Kix was talking, voice high and hopeful, and the aides were humming and sighing in relief, and Anakin felt… he…

“I got it—I got it! Okay, it’s out now!”

Something was different. Something was off. Something… something was confusing Anakin so much, he couldn’t process any of what happened around him, nothing at all. What was going on? What had Kix done? Had that last little piece triggered some kind of physical response? Was that why Anakin felt… he felt…

Obi-wan had taught him patience. He’d taught him how to step back, and assess the situation with a clear, organized mind. Anakin was high on blood loss, but he rallied what focus he could.

_ Start with your constants _ . Obi-wan said.  _ The things that never change _ .

Padmé was safe on Naboo, Anakin reminded himself. 

The Force was as present and familiar as ever. Anakin’s hold was failing, but he could feel it nonetheless. 

The men, Ahsoka, they were here, as they always were, Anakin knew. Their proximity, their presence was sure. 

And the pain—

The pain.

The pain was gone.

All of it. All at once. Gone. Dissolved, vanished, taken away.

Anakin could not comprehend this. 

The feeling—he could still feel, he checked. The table was still cold and slick, hands still pressed into his back. But it didn’t hurt. It didn’t ignite his bones or cook his flesh, it didn’t feel like hell. No, it felt… it almost felt…

Free.

Anakin cried. 

A tear spilled from his right eye, raced down his nose. It hung for a moment, then slid and fell, crashing into the red puddle like crystal—a glittering jewel—but that much more lovely, with that much more grace, and Anakin selfishly thought that wasted water had never looked so beautiful.

“Hold on, this doesn’t look like shrapnel.” Kix’s voice started to fade again.

Anakin knew he should have paid attention, but he didn’t care. All of this was too much too fast, too amazing to focus on anything else.  _ The pain was gone _ . Kriffing hells, _ the pain was gone _ !

“Sir? Do you know wh—Sir?  _ General Skywalker! _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who elected to skip the chapter because of the gore, all you need to know is that Kix is v good at what he does, and Anakin is going to recover completely from getting exploded. Also Kix may or may not have removed something from Anakin’s body that wasn’t quite... shrapnel.


	4. Perhaps the Archives are incomplete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin survived surgery, but this might just be the calm before the storm.

If Kix wasn’t a medic, he might not have noticed the way Kenobi’s hands were shaking, even clenched tight as they were behind the man’s back.

But Kix  _ was _ a medic, and he was used to people hiding things with habits like arm folds, toe taps, and clenched hands. He could see the way Kenobi’s tendons strained through the dark gloves. He could see the near-imperceptible tremor that started at his elbows, raced down to his fingertips, and made his wrists lock at awkward angles. Kix saw his chest spasm as he tried to breathe a silent breath.

“I… must perform some research.”

So he didn’t know. 

General Kenobi was probably the closest thing that Skywalker had to a family member—aside from Padmé, who actually was family (not that they were trying to prove it)—but Kix didn’t have direct contact with the Senator. And if anyone was going to have information about a questionable piece of something implanted in Skywalker’s body, it was Obi-wan. The two had history together. They were close.

Anakin himself probably would have known better about the thing; kriff, the man was so  _ in tune _ with the Force, how could he not know? But Kix had left him comatose in the Medbay after that particularly harrowing surgery, and the other meds were all hesitant to try waking him. They hadn’t induced him at all. He’d done it on his own, and that was always a tricky situation, especially if they weren’t sure what had caused him to lose consciousness. Had it been sheer blood loss? Or did it have something to do with the innocent-looking little chip in a tube on the table in front of Kix? 

Except, it wasn’t just an innocent little chip, was it? No, he and the other medics had quickly determined as much. For starters, it was old. Not  _ ancient _ , obviously, but it had been there for a long time—probably since the general had been an infant. And given how the general had passed out almost immediately post its removal, plus the fact that it had been connected to his nervous system, they’d been suspicious enough that it was still functioning. A simple computer test confirmed that. The computer test also happened to confirm the purpose of the sinister little chip, and it wasn’t an exaggeration to say that Kix… Kix had been aghast.

The chip was a  _ bomb _ . An active, armed,  _ bomb _ . Where was the detonator? No one knew. At any moment’s notice, it could be triggered, and  _ splat _ , there went the general. 

_ Someone could kill their general with one touch of a button _ .

And if that wasn’t horrifying enough, there was an added subfeature. Plugged into Skywalker’s spine as it had been, the chip could easily influence the amount of pain he felt. Any range of settings between complete, numb bliss, and excruciating torture. 

The chip was on the highest setting.  _ The highest setting. _

Why?

And again, this feature was controlled remotely—though there was no indication that it had been in any way redirected for at least ten years. For ten years, the chip had been manipulating Skywalker’s pain perception on the most extreme level, without ever stopping once.

That… that didn’t seem right. At all. How could that possibly be so? How could the general possibly function under such strain? How could he walk? How could he think? How could he  _ breathe _ ? How could he single-handedly lead the most successful battalion in the entire Republic with unending torment throughout his body? 

But even after they ran test after test, results continued to come back the same. The chip had afflicted.

The general had  _ suffered _ .

Why?

They needed to be sure. They needed to know where this horror had come from. They needed to know who put it there (not that the entire battalion had plans on homicide if they happened to receive such information). They needed to know who had allowed it to stay. They needed to know exactly why. And Kenobi was one system over, so it worked out well enough. Because Kenobi was Anakin’s  _ vod _ —his family, so it was supposed to work out well.

Except that… Kenobi didn’t know.

Alright, Kix could wait. Not that he wanted to wait, since no one could tell when his General was going to wake up—if ever at all.

“On Coruscant, Sir?”

Kenobi’s eyes went icy, and he turned to Kix with a haunted look beneath his thin mask of calm.

“No.” He said, and again, the medic in Kix heard the slight tremble in the word. “No, as prideful as Madame Jocasta may be, her archives  _ are _ incomplete. I must look elsewhere…”

And the subtleties, those had been Kenobi’s great gift: something he hadn’t passed off to Anakin. In the subtle tone of his words, Kix heard that he wouldn’t be searching for information. He would be searching for  _ confirmation _ . And even though Kix didn’t quite understand what was going on, he could tell how badly they both wanted Kenobi’s suspicions proven wrong.

“Alright, Sir.” Kix tried to swallow the lump in his esophagus, but his mouth was too dry, and his tongue just got stuck.

Kenobi nodded once, sharply. “The fleet will be returning to Coruscant on leave, thanks to Anakin’s successful campaign. I’ve given Commander Tano my orders. You and I will reconvene in a few standard days.”

Kix winced and nodded. “Yes Sir.” He choked.

Without another word, Kenobi turned on his heel and strode away. The door hissed behind him.

**< ~><><~>**

Soft (and smooth). 

That was what Anakin felt.

It was such a foreign feeling. He hadn’t really experienced it since Padmé came back, but never in full—not since… well, not ever. Not that he could remember.

But it felt so good.  _ So good _ .

It felt like a newborn. Like the freedom of an innocent child. Sheltered, protected, safe. The bliss of an undamaged body and mind (even if synthetic in its nature). 

He wanted to stay like this. Anakin wanted to hold on to this heavenly sensation as long as he could—because who knew when it would all come crashing down? When the pain would settle back in? Here, Anakin was without the worry of everything he’d accustomed himself to: the perpetual agony, the restless sleep, the lack of peace. (How selfish).

He thought he’d have to die before missing those things again. Part of him was suddenly afraid. Was this really what death felt like? Free at last, but lifeless, and detached? Blank and nothing?

No—no. Anakin wasn’t dead. He could feel the Force flowing around him. It cushioned him, cradled him, soothed his anxiety away, and it felt nice. (Selfish). If he was dead, he was supposed to be one with the Force. He wasn’t supposed to feel its comfort in a way the pain hadn’t allowed for over ten years.

Such a tangible presence. Such a cool, gentleness. It washed over Anakin like a dessert-blue breeze, swept away the uncertainty, mended something inside him and buoyed his heart from the depths. It didn’t try to keep him; it didn’t try to push him on. It simply was—and it came around Anakin like the embrace of an old friend. It supported him. 

The pain used to block the Force, stop it, guard against it like a shield Anakin had never placed, leaving him behind to drown alone in the fire. But now the blistering blaze was gone, and Anakin had never felt more free.

It made him want to cry.

But wait—

Crying wasted water—and he couldn’t afford to waste water—he’d already lost so much blood—

Without warning, the memories crashed into Anakin, and the fear bloomed inside him, and it was too much too fast for him to stay asleep.

His mind exploded; he flailed. He was afraid, and he was falling, and he didn’t want to be lost again—

But the Force was there. And the pain was not. And the Force reached out with open arms and caught his downward spiral.

It breathed life.

Anakin was no longer afraid. Why should he be? The pain was gone.

So instead of awakening to an alien room, disorientated, crying out, his mind slowly drifted away from the darkness. His body hadn’t been so at ease since his wife held him for the very first time.

Light trickled to eyes behind closed lids. Anakin drew back, and spread out slowly then, careful not to make his presence sharp, or loud. Quiet was okay this time. Quiet and slow, steady peace. Not his style, but he wanted it now, and the Force was willing to comply.

Amazing how easy it was, with the pain gone. About fifty times easier. He’d never felt so connected to the Force. If the pain had been holding Anakin back, what could he do, now that it was gone? What was he capable of? He didn’t care to think about it in the moment (too big a thing to comprehend).

Anakin reached out with his senses. He knew he wasn’t alone; he could feel the vibrant melody of the Force, a symphony of esse in the ship, the fleet, the planets they were flashing past. The clarity, the purity of the music was so captivating, Anakin was almost tempted to sink under it again. But there was a particularly familiar presence nearer to him than others, and he needed to recognize who it was that danced in the cosmos so beautifully. A small glimmer of starlight rewarded his search. Among other glints of life in the surrounding, a star burned brighter, stronger, warmer. Not hot, like the blazing glare of Tian and Garto, but just enough to heat. Inviting. It was dimmed, low on simmer, and drowsy. 

Anakin opened his eyes.

He knew that warmth.

As his sight adjusted to the dimness of the room, he felt his gaze drawn to a smaller—no longer small—creature curled up against the side of his cot. Her arms were folded sloppily just shy of Anakin’s legs, with her upper body sprawled atop them in some attempt at comfort, lekku squished beside her head. She’d seated the rest of herself in a chair pulled as close to the gurney as possible. Someone had donated a thick, woven poncho to combat the chill of the Medbay (Anakin was pretty sure Master Plo had given it to her).

An  ~~ affectionate ~~ exasperated smile spread across Anakin’s face. (It amazed him how easy the action came, now that there was no reason not to smile).

“Snips,” He murmured, voice low. “How many times have I told you not to wait up like this?” The notes of his voice crackled and broke on nearly every syllable, as if he hadn’t spoken for days. How long had he lingered in the netherrealm of the Force? Had it been long enough to make his tease sour in poor taste? With the words, he sent a thread of endearment through the training bond, to reassure his Padawan that he wasn’t actually displeased.

Her drowsy demeanor instantly snapped like a brittle bar of glass, and her head shot up as the Force crashed around her alert form. The turnaround was so sudden, Anakin almost got vertigo.  _ I’m awake! _ She seemed to shout. Her signature pulsed with animation. Sapphire eyes darted to him like magnets.

“Master!” Raw, unashamed elation made the word glow.

Anakin’s smile only grew. He knew she didn’t mean the slip-up.

“And how many times have I told you not to call me that?”

She hastily pushed away from his bed and sat up ramrod straight. Her hands fiddled together. A tight, almost-smile pulled on her mouth. Other than a small bacta patch here or there, she looked unharmed; she looked well, even if dark bags bruised the skin beneath her bright eyes. There remained a luminance to the presence of her in the Force: young, bright, pure. She shone like a beacon, like a dancing little star. Anakin was glad she’d gotten through the battle alright. Things had been pretty rough.

“Sorry Anakin, Master; Obi-wan says it’s improper.”

Of course he did. “Duly noted. And Yoda?”

“Careless.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds. She blinked away the dryness in her eyes, fully awake, but still somewhat sluggish—though not noticeably so. Anakin could feel an aura of anticipation radiating from her in high-strung full, like there was a big question she really absolutely had to ask, but was afraid to get on with it for fear of pushing too hard. 

Anakin had gotten blown up, not psychologically tortured. He could handle it.

“Alright, Ahsoka, what is it?”

“How are you feeling, Master?”

Oh. Really? That was what she wanted to know? 

But Anakin wasn’t about to just brush off the question—he wasn’t going to do that. This was Ahsoka, and she  _ mattered _ —how could he dismiss a question that indicated just how well she meant? Careless.

So he pondered the words in his head, and genuinely took a moment to evaluate. By some… unforeseen miracle, the pain was still missing. Anakin was a little worried about it (how long had it been? Would he be punished for the absence if anyone found out?), but he was doing his best to relish the state as long as he could. Honestly, he felt like he was walking the skies.

“Amazing.” He answered.

Yes, there was the whole…  _ that _ on his shoulder (he could feel that), but the mild ache didn’t even hold a candle to what he was used to, and it was already  _ clicks _ better than anytime he’d been a slave that he could ever remember. Besides, he could also feel the bacta working on his body, and he knew that in spite of the torn muscle, ligament, tendon, and whatever else, whatever other damage he’d sustained, he’d be good as new in a few short  ~~ weeks ~~ days. He would owe thanks to Kix, no doubt, and the wonderful thing of modern medical technology.

But Ahsoka didn’t seem to be factoring all of that in. Her brows pulled together with a perplexed frown.

“You are?”

“Never better, Snips.”

She was sensitive, so she could feel his sincerity. And she looked confused.

When she struggled for something to say, Anakin relaxed his face and asked his own question. “How long was I asleep?”

Her mechanic answer came swiftly. “Three days, fourteen hours, and…” She took the moment to glance at the chrono on the far wall. “Twenty-three minutes.”

“Kriff! That long?”

“You really had us worried there, Master.”

“I’m sorry; you know how the Force gets. Sometimes we just need to have a little catching up. That’s all.”

“The Force can kiss Kix’s butt.”

Anakin felt a happy laugh burst out of his throat. (It amazed him how easy the action came, now that there was no reason not to laugh). He would have to give Ahsoka a talking-to later about dissing the eldritch that kept him in one piece, but for now, he was content to see her back to her usual, snippy self.

Ahsoka offered a wobbly smile for his efforts (what a beautiful sight).

“How are the men?”

She shifted in her seat. “That last campaign dealt us some heavy losses, but most everyone was anxious about you. You’re the general, and for a while they didn’t… they weren’t sure if…”

Anakin reached out tentatively and squeezed her hand. “I’m alright now, Ahsoka.”

“You must be high on pain meds if you’re saying that so easily.”

A quick scowl broke through Anakin’s soft features. He didn’t  _ feel _ as though he were under the influence, and he trusted Kix. He told Kix he didn’t want medication. Narcotics numbed the Force, and Anakin needed the Force like he needed water. Part of Kix knew that. 

Didn’t Kix know how Anakin reacted when he lost touch with the life surrounding him? Between the pain, and the psyche of war, and the never-ending list of numbers—of  _ names _ —of people they’d lost, it was more than a comfort to feel every breath, every heartbeat, every flare of the glow of every person Anakin  ~~ cared about ~~ was responsible for. He needed reassurance that they were still by his side, still fighting, still holding on. No one blamed him for that, least of all Kix (the medic among soldiers).

But the pain was still gone, and Anakin was suspicious, because the pain was his  _ constant _ , and even though the Force was singing clearly like it never had before, Anakin simply couldn’t believe his newfound freedom.

“Kriffing medic had  _ better _ not have drugged me,”

Ahsoka winced just the slightest bit, sympathetic. All Jedi were sympathetic. All Jedi could mourn the severance—however brief—to some extent. But Ahsoka  _ knew _ , and she  _ understood _ . Far better than most others. 

She reciprocated his hand squeeze, then let go, and stood up with a stiff air. “I’ll go find Kix, Master.”

Anakin hummed his assent and watched her go.


	5. Cronch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kix finally gets kriffing answers. SOMEBODY PAY THIS MAN FORCE KNOWS HE DESERVES IT

Anakin wasn’t sure if he’d properly prepared himself. The more time that passed—taking Ahsoka to return—the more aware he became of the wounds mauling his body. The more apprehensive he became of his impending visit with Kix.

It wasn’t that his back hurt worse than before. He just felt… more  _ conscious _ . With each passing minute, his connection to the Force seemed to grow, to strengthen. It whispered unspoken depths of  _ power _ , and  _ knowledge _ : such as Anakin had never felt before in any other living creature. All of it was available to him, now that there was no pain to distract his focus. 

Unfortunately, having unlocked this newfound omniscience, he became increasingly aware of the brutal lacerations shooting over his shoulder and digging into the scarred flesh of his back.

He wasn’t quite sure what he had expected. The last thing he remembered before the surgery was shrapnel rending the sky, so it wasn’t a long shot to assume the damage had been brutal.

Was Miller’s squadron alright? 

The moment the thought crossed Anakin’s mind, he suppressed a flinch. He wanted to know. He  _ really _ wanted to know. But with all the lights, all the pain, and all the steps between him and the closest command terminal, he avoided thinking about it, because knowing now seemed impossible.

Expect… Anakin didn’t need to leave his cot, did he? With the pain gone, and the Force a pure  _ sun _ blazing within him, he could reach over all the other lights and single them out with ease. He just needed to quiet his mind.

So with a deep breath, Anakin closed his eyes, and spread his consciousness. There was no limit to how far he could stretch. Where before he’d felt strained, the depth of his mind now seemed endless. The dark abyss of space turned white with his radiance, and it was almost too much, almost too strong to stop from losing himself and boiling his brain. But the Force was there, his lifeline like always. Tethering him to the  _ here _ and  _ now _ .

Just as Master Qui-gon used to say.

It was easy to find the unique signatures that Miller’s squadron exuded. None of them were nearby, which meant that all of them had escaped the Medbay, and Anakin felt himself collapse with relief. They were alive. They were fine. He’d protected them.

He’d have been devastated if he had failed. (So many shinies).

But the peace didn’t last long. As Anakin drew back on himself, he felt the approach of two fiery lights coming up the hall, and dread inadvertently choked out any reassurance he’d had. Darn, he should have died when he had the chance. He could feel a storm brewing. An indignant, apprehensive, woeful storm: one of light, but a tempest nonetheless.

The door swished open.

“General,” Kix greeted stiffly. He marched into the room. Tension radiated from his signature like crashing waves on Camino, and his joints were locked so tight, it was a wonder he’d made the walk all the way down here.

Ahsoka stumbled across the threshold behind him. Her hand slid along the wall, and there was a dazed, frozen quality to her eyes. Her legs wobbled. She hadn’t been so put out of it before. Why was she losing balance? Half awake?

Anakin shifted in his cot. What was wrong?

Lifting her pale face, Ahsoka tried in vain to locate him among the depths of white in the room. She brought her free, shaking hand to the side of her head, gingerly pressing her fingers there as though suffering a brilliant bruise.

“Master,” She whispered in a strained voice. “You’re so…  _ loud _ .”

Oh.

Anakin slammed his walls up without a second thought. 

That made sense. It made excellent sense. He should have known, should have realized he wasn’t shielding, should have realized how big of an impact that would have on everyone, especially his padawan, who was a Jedi. The newfound connection to the Force alone was enough to give him vertigo, when the light flared so vividly, dazzling any mind within three systems.

He should have been more careful. Until he’d learned to properly shield, he’d been quite the nuisance at the Temple. His mere presence had blinded every Force-sensitive on the planet—and that was before the pain was gone. That was before… now.

Once again, the action of closing his mind off came with such ease. His concentration was so perfect, so flawless, he barely had to think about clamping steel barriers around himself. And it wasn’t as though the light of the Force dimmed at that. Earlier on, he might have struggled to maintain the complete connection, shut off from the greater wellspring of energy and life, but now it was  _ within _ him, and he felt no change. 

_ Incredible _ .

Ahsoka sagged in immediate respite.

“Apologies, Young One.” He muttered. “I didn’t realize.”

She smiled at him again, still shaky, no less awed, but she also fixed her shields intact. The training bond was alive with her tumultuous thoughts, and Anakin became aware of how easy it would be to draw them out. But he could feel how badly she was trying to remain closed off, and he didn’t want to stun her again by mistake. They could talk later. She always talked to him.

“Thank you, Commander,” Kix turned to Ahsoka with a sharp swivel, expression neutral. He didn’t waste any words on ambiguity.

“I’d like to speak to the general in private, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh!” Her chevrons flushed, and she straightened. The weight of the Force had lifted, and she wasn’t shaking any longer. Her stance had regained its strength. “Of course. I’ll be down in the mess. Just comm if you need me again!”

“Will do, Commander.”

She ducked out the door with an airy skip.

Ahsoka was going to the men. That was good. She’d have some good news to give them, no doubt. They liked to worry on Anakin’s behalf, as much as he discouraged it. (She’d been with them for three days, fourteen hours, and thirty-two minutes).

Kix continued to stand at the mouth of the room, motionless for a count. His vigilant eyes pierced into Anakin’s shoulder. His expression remained neutral.

Neither of them spoke until Anakin did, in fact, feel Ahsoka’s presence enter the mess, until he felt the mixed aura of relief and elation float up from the troopers gathered there. 

Then Kix’s sharp gaze snapped away from the bandages, locked onto a set of desert blue: eyes clearer than they’d ever been.

“Sir,” He spoke, voice carefully clipped. “How are you feeling?”

It seemed like a trick question. Anakin nibbled on his cheek, mily apprehensive. The rigidity was making him nervous, but he  _ trusted _ Kix, and he had to hold onto that faith in the moment, if he was going to get any answers.

“Really… really good, Kix. How about you?”

The medic’s eyes narrowed by a hair. He finally moved, lowering his arms from where he’d gripped them behind his back, decided he didn’t like the loose posture, and crossed them over his chest. The shuffling of his feet brought him a pace closer.

“Well enough, Sir. Though, I must confess I’ve taken a page from your book, and I haven’t slept for about thirty-eight hours.”

(“I  _ couldn’t _ .” were the unspoken words).

Anakin frowned, despite how oddly unfamiliar the action felt. “I’m sorry for my recklessness. I… I wouldn’t have caused such strife if I had been more attentive…”

Kix nodded in complete concurrence. However, there was something still pressing his features into collected lines. They’d barely shifted to speak, and Anakin became increasingly worried the longer the frozen state perpetuated.

What was wrong?

“Kix, what’s going on?”

A slight tilt of the head had his eyes drifting back to Anakin’s shoulder.

“What do you remember?”

The frown turned to a scowl, at the memory of the pain—especially the surgery. But it wasn’t gruesome to think about, because Anakin was so at ease now he could hardly recall such agony in full. The Force was an all-encompassing presence; it suppressed even the phantoms of past feeling.

“I must have gotten knocked out on the battlefield.”

“Yes, after you took a  _ direct hit _ from a shell made of  _ shrapnel _ .”

Better Anakin than any of the shiny new troopers. “What did we—”

Kix answered before he could finish the thought. “Ahsoka took care of everything. She arranged the occupation camps on the surface; evacuated you with the rest of the wounded as soon as we heard you’d been hit. By that time, the battle was mostly over. You’d be proud of the way she conducted herself. The campaign was a success.”

That was relieving too. Anakin made a personal note to revisit Ahsoka’s role in the conflict. She deserved some praise for her excellent leadership—or at least thanks, if honor wasn’t the Jedi way.

“Good.” Anakin sighed. “That’s good.”

“Do you remember anything else?”

Kix was prying without shame. Anakin couldn’t blame the man; after all, the damage had been extensive, and Anakin had been reckless. Still, he found himself hesitating. Of course he remembered the surgery. He was sure Kix prefered that he didn’t, and would the medic be distressed if he knew? But he wouldn’t know if Anakin didn’t tell him. 

As much as Anakin tried to downplay it inside, that had been one of the most painful experiences of his life. He  _ knew _ as much. Whether or not the Force allowed him to recall the explicit details was another matter altogether.

“I remember… waking up in—on the table.”

Kix grew even more still, if that was possible.

“I remember the shrapnel, the Force, it—did you drug me?”

“Sir?”

“I asked you not to give me pain medication. Did you disobey my orders?”

“All due respect, Sir, I very well should have. You were in no condition to make a decision like that for yourself, and as the ranking officer in the room—”

“Ranking officer? I’m your general!”

“An incapacitated general. Sir, as the team medic, when it comes to the health of the men, including you, I outrank everyone.”

It was a valid argument, but Anakin wouldn’t accept it. “That’s banthacrap.” He growled. “Never,  _ never _ give me pain meds. I was fine. I can handle i—”

“Sir! Please!” In an unsettling display of emotion, Kix surged forward and gripped the foot rail of the gurney, maybe moving the most in such a short span of time since he’d entered the room. “You should not have been awake!”

He didn’t scream the words; his shout didn’t shake the walls, but there was an intense quality to his voice, a particular tilt to his brow that made Anakin pause before yelling back. 

This was no longer the bossy, level-headed medic with durasteel nerves and sarcastic quips. Anakin was staring into the eyes of a mournful, devastated man: one who’d faced the gruesome tragedy of watching someone suffer in his care.

“You shouldn’t remember.”

But Anakin  _ did _ remember, and why would it matter whether he should have or not? (He didn’t want to forget). He would rather himself be tortured—someone who was used to it, someone who really could handle it—than a younger man with bright eyes and a simple, unscarred view. Besides, even if the pain had nearly overcome him, even if it had been the worst thing he’d ever felt, it was over now. And the absence of it was almost worth every day of suffering.

“I don’t remember much.” He tried to amend. “The pain was intense, but at the end… at the end I…” (He had cried. Crystal tears of sweet relief). “I felt better before I blacked out.”

Kix raised an eyebrow, careful.  _ So careful _ . But it was just a facade, and the mask was failing quickly. His voice wobbled on the words. “Did it have to do with something I removed?”

Yes.

“What are you talking about, Kix?”

“Sir, I found something when you… when I…” He swallowed, thickly, and squeezed his eyes shut. “We ran tests on it. And I don’t understand—I don’t know why—what it—”

“Trooper, what are you  _ talking about _ ?”

Kix reached behind his waist and detached an unassuming canister from his belt. His hand was shaking, his tendons strained through his gloves. Anakin looked up, and saw tears flooding the normally-sharp, usually-keen eyes.

“Sir, Why WAS THIS TORTURE DEVICE IN YOU?”

Tremors raced up his arm and made the canister rattle. Anakin had never seen his medic this broken, this open, this horrified. He never cried—not because it wasted water, but because he was strong enough not to. Whatever he held in that innocent little bottle had robbed him of all his strength, rendered him heartbroken.

It was a scary thought.

“What is that?”

Kix’s left eye spilled over. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. That single track of wasted water appeared hideous to Anakin, because it was the firstborn of pain, caused by shaking hands and sinister white tubes.

The bottle popped open; Kix twisted the lid off, trembling. He poured the contents into his open palm, and lifted his arm so Anakin could see.

“General Kenobi didn’t know, Sir. And I thought if anyone did, it would be you…”

A chip. It was a chip.

A tiny, sleek, unassuming chip. Something Anakin might find in a computer. In a droid.

_ In a slave _ .

Yes, he knew exactly what he was looking at. So many times, he’d seen them before, changing hands, drilled into bodies, set off. Turned on. Detonated.

It was his.

Ah, no wonder the pain was gone.

What would his masters do if they found the chip removed? A shudder would have shaken Anakin if the Force hadn’t held him steady. There would be severe punishments. As kind as the Jedi were, no master showed mercy to a slave that removed their own chains. It was not for the bound to declare themselves free.

_ Put it back in. _ Anakin wanted to tell Kix.  _ Put that right back where you found it _ .

There was no need to get into the consequences. They could undo all of it if Kix just returned the chip where it belonged. The Jedi didn’t need to know. The records could be updated. This mistake wouldn’t happen again.

“Ah,” He brought a hand to the back of his neck and lowered his eyes. He had to play it cool. Kix was in such a state. The last thing Anakin wanted to do was push him too far, even if it  _ was _ the first instinct to insist. 

Besides, this… this was embarrassing. He thought Kix  _ knew _ . Shouldn’t Kix know? He was the medic. He was Anakin’s medic. About the chip: that was something he should know.

“They didn’t tell you? I thought it’d be in the brief.”

But  _ obviously _ no one had told him, because there he stood, arms unsteady, knees braced against the foot of Anakin’s hospital bed. Mouth agape with wordless horror, and a thousand other tears just waiting to fall. This time, it really was wasted water. But Anakin was willing to give some grace, because Kix clearly hadn’t known.

“That’s my slave chip.” He admitted. A sheepish, ashamed red flushed unbidden up Anakin’s face. He wished he could crawl under the white sheets and hide. As it was, his eyes remained unable to drag his gaze back to the medic, remaining instead fixed on the floor just to his left.

He hated to confess, especially if Kix didn’t know. What would they think of him? He was lesser. Slaves were  _ lesser _ .

“It’s supposed to be there. It means they own me.”

For a moment, silence swallowed the room. Anakin had nothing more to say, and Kix was stunned speechless. It was expected. How humiliated would you be? To find you’d been taking orders from a slave? Those men deserved better. (Someone who could really protect them).

Anakin still couldn’t look up, so he didn’t know what kind of face the medic was making. Whatever his reaction, it was silent. It went unseen.

There was a final movement. Anakin thought the medic’s hand had slipped, because a chip fell into his line of sight (clicked against the floor). With all the shaking, all the blurry eyes, it was plausible. But then a white boot came down, swift as a gavel, stomped the chip to dust. 

There was a sharp  _ crunch _ . 

And that was that.

“WAIT!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kriff, Ahsoka. She of dirty mind ig.


	6. Ninety-nine bottles of wine on the wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahsoka: yo Skyguy, do you know why the five stages of grief spell out DABDA?  
> Anakin: *literally mourning the death of my mother* I’m literally mourning the death of my mother can you not  
> Ahsoka: because sometimes you gotta DAB DA feels away :)  
> Anakin: get out of my sight

The room was too cold.

Obi-wan wasn’t particularly used to heat, leastways enough to be sensitive to the chill, but he still felt much too  _ frigid _ .

He’d curled up under his desk, knees gripped close, shivering. His cloaks lay forgone on the bed he couldn’t see. They tempted, and mocked, but he didn’t deserve to feel warm. He needed to feel.

Maybe it would clear his mind, give him focus.

The room was also dark. 

Such lack of light was dangerous, but it hurt his eyes to be any brighter. It hurt his head. His head throbbed.

That was his own fault, really. Obi-wan was an everything-in-moderation sort of man, but he’d far surpassed his tolerance for alcohol the night before, and his body was letting him know it.

For once in his ordered life, impulse had consumed him, and circumstance had provided. 

The bottles of wine had just  _ been _ there. They had done their fine work. By the time Obi-wan was halfway through his fifth glass in five minutes, the world began to blur around the edges, and the pain began to fade. Though, once the realization crossed his thoughts, he knew he wasn’t drunk enough, because it reminded him about Anakin, and how Anakin never had that luxury. Faded pain, it was to say. 

Apparently Anakin’s pain had been constant. For ten years. Every second of every minute.

Though, of course, a decade was simply the longest it had gone  _ uninterrupted _ . The more research Obi-wan conducted, the more he began to realize the full extent of the horrors Anakin had suffered.

  
  


_ His hands had been unstable to begin with. He hadn’t stopped them shaking since he’d left the bridge of the  _ Resolute _ , and he’d sent up a half-hearted prayer that Kix hadn’t noticed. It was wishful thinking though. Of course Kix noticed. Kix didn’t miss a thing. That was a quality to be grateful for. _

_ Though, at times, Obi-wan wished the medic wasn’t so good. Wished he didn’t have hawk eyes. Now he was conflicted. Tremulous hands were a sign of weakness. He needed to be strong. _

_ It had been so bad, he’d almost entered the coordinates incorrectly, and he’d almost jumped to the wrong planet. _

_ The Force guided him, however. _

_ Before long, he reached his location, and he looked on the bleached, barren sand of the sun-scorched planet for the second time in his life. _

Tired _. He thought.  _ This place looks tired.

_ But there is always life, even in desolate places. Obi-wan commanded himself to watch what he saw. _

Look at them. _ He thought. _ Look at how they suffer. Look at what you do, what you’ve done.

_ And he tried to unhook the poisonous words from his mind, but deep down he knew he didn’t need any confirmation. The Force spoke to him, and as badly as he wanted to be deaf, he very well could understand. He knew, deep down. He’d known as soon as the words dropped like weights from Kix’s mouth. _

_ But a part of him… some foolish, idealistic, immature part of him held out hope that this was all just a misunderstanding, and Anakin would wake up and laugh the tests off and all things would go back to the way they had been. It was foolhardy: a fantasy, and he knew it before he even opened the book and turned the first page. _

_ A planet like this, so far from the Core, so primitive in their technological standards, they still used books as their primary source of information—though there weren’t many. Obi-wan had only been granted access to this pitiful library because he had status, as a freeborn, and the sovereigns were in allegiance with the Republic. (Thanks was due Anakin). _

_ It disgusted him. _

_ The things Obi-wan saw, the things he knew, what he remembered doing and just how badly he had failed—never mind his research—it disgusted him. He was repulsed. On the verge of vomiting. He didn’t feel well at all. _

_ The further he read, the worse his symptoms became. His hands continued to shake, his stomach churned, and his complexion was turning a horrid yellow-ish hue, which meant that his bile duct was being obstructed. These things combined made a sure combination for instability, though physical malady wasn’t the only reason for Obi-wan’s mishandle. No, in spite of his blurry vision, he could read the broken lines of Huttese script just fine, and when he finally found what he had been searching for, it felt like a suckerpunch to the teeth. _

_ His heart truly stopped beating. His hands ceased to tremble. Every anxiety, every doubt he’d had fled his mind in an instant, washed out by a crippling wave of dread. _

_ The heavy, aged tome slipped through Obi-wan’s fingers. It hit the floor with a splash. Dust spewed. Sand scattered. _

_ Obi-wan was a monster. _

  
  


He had denied it at first. It was so unreal, so impossible—and he was that much more unwilling to believe.

How could Anakin have allowed a  _ bomb _ to remain in his spine? How could he not have told  _ anyone _ at all? Not for all these years? Not even Obi-wan? Hadn’t they trusted each other? Hadn’t they… cared about each other? Obi-wan cared— _ so much _ —and he thought Anakin knew that. He thought he’d shown it too, on hundreds of occasions at least.

Force, Anakin was nearly as stubborn as Obi-wan, but hadn’t he  _ known _ ? Obi-wan couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it.

If he believed it, he’d be facing the fact that his  ~~_ vod _ ~~ friend had gone ten lonely years without thinking anyone cared about him, caring about him as a person, and not about his flawless performance. About his interests, his needs—not what they could get from him, what they could use him for. 

Didn’t he know that?

Obi-wan desperately wished for it to be so. But deep down… a part of him doubted, no matter how fiercely he tried to deny it. Deep down, he felt it with utter surety. Anakin had suffered. And it was Obi-wan’s fault.

The cold realization made dread condense against the stillness of his heart, made it slowly drip in frigid beads of ice, splashing into the barren abyss of his gut.

It made him angry.

His was a wild anger without much direction. He was angry at everyone, everything, really. Himself, for being so clueless, so blind, so unwilling to see. So unwilling to reach out, so unable to provide, so inadequate.

~~Qui-gon would have done better~~.

Because where had Obi-wan been when Anakin so obviously needed him? It didn’t matter that Obi-wan hadn’t understood the full extent of the situation, because he  _ should _ have—Anakin was his  _ Padawan _ blast it—and that was all that really mattered. He had been too critical, too harsh, hurtful in thought and mind. He was furious at himself for being so inattentive. All Anakin wanted was to be accepted, approved of. Force, the boy had tried  _ so hard _ to please Obi-wan, to fulfil his expectations, all while living every minute in a waking hell, the crushing pain of slavery balanced atop his head. How could Obi-wan have missed that? Only a bloody  _ fool _ would miss that. 

All Obi-wan ever did was knock his apprentice down. His first mistake had been missing, overlooking the chip. His second mistake had been disregarding it. How many times had Anakin broken under its weight, snapped and been curt and choked on his agony—only to have Obi-wan reprimand him, lecture him for his recklessness and unacceptable behavior?

He was outraged at the slave trade. (They should have freed Shmi when they had the chance). He was galled by the people who allowed it, who perpetuated it, who practiced it. Repulsed and disgusted and beside himself with indignance such as he had never felt—such weight the injustice pressed upon him. How  _ dare _ any creature rectify the horrific system? Obi-wan knew he was a part of it, and he despised that. He was outraged that anyone should be made to bear such a heavy chain. That anyone should live to see their freedom stripped away—or be born and never know the difference.

Anakin had  _ suffered _ .

Why had it taken a bomb to make Obi-wan realize?

In vain, he bargained with himself.

_ If only I’d paid closer attention _ . He thought darkly.  _ If only I hadn’t been so selfish, so concerned with the admiration of the Council. If only I was more like you: assertive, confident, carefree, then I wouldn’t have ignored the secrets you were never able to hide. If only I hadn’t been afraid to show how much you mean to me. _

_ I was ready to give you everything.  _

Yet another way Obi-wan fell short. Yet another way he had failed. Yet another way he simply wasn’t good enough. All his life was a mere chronicle of derelictions and nonperformances, one after one, over and over. It really was no surprise that Anakin should fall victim to Obi-wan’s pitiful tendencies. A shame, and a tragedy, yes, but not a surprise. It made him wonder,  _ if only Qui-gon had lived, if I had been knighted and Anakin made my brother, everything would be different. _ No, Qui-gon had not failed, neither would he have, if it weren’t for Obi-wan. 

_ If only I’d been better. _

If not for Obi-wan, Qui-gon would still be alive. Shmi would be free. Anakin would never have known another day of unhappiness. Not that `unhappiness` was anywhere near a fitting word for what he had experienced—what Obi-wan had allowed to continue unending… for years. Because Obi-wan wasn’t good enough, and Anakin had suffered.

What depression was fitting for a treachery such as this? 

As Obi-wan’s  _ maybe _ ’s fizzled out, the light leaked away from him, and he descended into shadow. All the world became a swirling haze. The weight of his offenses piled up crushing on his neck, pressing him slowly down, wringing his heart until he couldn’t feel it anymore. 

It was only fair. It wasn’t really fair, but Obi-wan acknowledged the pressure with dullness, perhaps even welcomed it, a little. Because Anakin had felt this too, hadn’t he? Struggled every day with the burden on his back, yet still moving forward, improving, being stronger than Obi-wan ever was. It wasn’t enough: what Obi-wan felt. His guilt, his horror, his remorse—it wasn’t enough. The heaviness of the dark wasn’t enough. Not when Anakin had drowned in it for years, when he’d had a lifetime of the sky pillared on his body, when he never knew the difference.

The weight was so opaque, Obi-wan couldn’t even find the strength to shed his tears. He had no right to do so, not really, but even if he did, his body wouldn’t allow it. It was only fair. When had Anakin ever wasted water like that? Never once had the boy wept over his agony. While Obi-wan might have sobbed and wailed and rocked himself in a cold, dark room, hungover, cowering under a desk, Anakin had always been stronger. Braver. More than capable, all but eager in everything, if only to do what was right. If only to please. Even though he had suffered.

It wasn’t until Obi-wan stood on that bright,  _ achingly familiar _ balcony, that he found the drops falling. Frigid beads of broken acceptance that dampened the Senator’s shoulder and made the world blur.

Her delicate hands on his back soothed him, though he had no right to be at peace. Not with a meeting hours away, not after everything he’d learned, or everything he’d done, or the sound of the galaxy’s largest city humming in his ears. Not in the home where his  ~~ brother ~~ friend once had dreams.

“No one cried for him.” He whispered into the patterned fabric of her gown, feeling the pool of his own eyes spill over, messier than it should have been.

As Padmé drew aside, he saw that her face glistened too.

“I did.” She whispered back. “We all did.”

**< ~><><~>**

Poor little Ahsoka. Her head was hidden in the bucket some shiny had provided. She was panting and coughing after another vicious bout of regurgitation: on the floor, body wracked with violent tremors. Tears hadn’t stopped running down her cheeks. Neither had sweat ceased to leak from her pores, or snot to bleed from her nose, and bright splatterings of blood had popped under the skin on her forehead, streaking her blue eyes with orange.

Her stomach was wrung out. She was dehydrated, and sick, and shaking so badly her boots were tapping a muted rhythm against the cold durasteel. There was nothing left in her stomach. Kix had tried to stop her dry heaving, but Rex was the only one who could touch her without setting the poor girl savage. Anything she’d choked down in the past two hours had come right back out.

The sweat made her shiver. She shook and puked and groaned miserably and learned that talking only made the symptoms worse, so she gave up on articulation and just hugged the captain’s blacks closer.

No one else had spoken much either. They just sat in the grey room and stared at chosen sections of the floor.

Every now and again, Rex would grip Ahsoka a little tighter and mutter soothing words, while she tried to remove the insides from her body.

Even Fives couldn’t find it in himself to joke.

( _ This is wrong _ , Echo mouthed over and over with his head in his hands).

It had been about an hour since Kix walked in to find the Captain. He hadn’t meant for Ahsoka to hear—hadn’t meant for  _ anyone _ else to hear—not yet, anyway. He’d just wanted to tell somebody, and he knew Rex could be calm and collected about it.

However, Rex had not been alone. Neither had Rex been composed in the slightest.

It wasn’t his fault Ahsoka had been hiding in the corridor, and it wasn’t his fault that she’d then run crying to Echo and Fives. That they’d bolted with all urgency to find Kix, in some sorry hope of disproving the Commander’s testimony. That by the time they made it back, the room had filled with troopers, and Rex’s bucket was shattered, and Ahsoka was stumbling over every step because her insides were trying to reject nature and leave her body without permission.

_ The general will be okay _ . Kix had said, and it destroyed him to knowingly rip the relief from their faces.

_ There is bad news.  _

Rex had screamed before anyone else arrived. He cried and yelled and broke his helmet, and Kix was the only one who saw. White pieces laid in splintered shards across the room. A shell with blown-out eyes had been kicked corner-bound, and no one had the nerve to touch it, after imagining the force required to deal such damage.

No one wanted to move.

They all just sat there, staring, listening to Ahsoka cry.

It took her another half hour to come near coherence, to be able to speak. Even then, she mostly whimpered. She asked for water.

Kix gave it to her, because he’d anticipated the question. Bottles had been waiting ready on the table. It intrigued the people in the room. They waited for her to throw it up, and sagged when she managed to keep a few sips down.

Rex praised her quietly.

She swallowed, let her eyelids flutter shut, shuddered as she breathed. Her lips moved, but somehow, the sound was disconnected and too soft to be broken.

“I called him `Master`.”

Those were the first words she’d spoken in a while. They captured the attention of all. Kix’s heart continued to sink.

Echo groaned, miserable. “This is all kinds of wrong.”

“He always hated that word, and I never understood why.”

“You couldn’t have known.” Rex whispered when her eyes began to well again.

“This has to be some sick fekking joke.” Fives’ voice was so unbelievably unstable. “Kix, kriffing tell me this is a joke.” (He must have asked three times already).

Kix could only shake his head, clenching and unclenching his fists. His esophagus was burning and constricting, and he couldn’t swallow no matter how hard he tried.

_ I can’t. Because it’s not. _

Some inhuman sound made its way through Fives’ lips.

A few of the shinies in the room didn’t bother hiding their tears.

This was the  _ general _ . He was their hero, their fearless warrior.  _ Ekkreth _ . He’d freed so many brothers, liberated so many slaves, given hope to so many people. How could he be the source of so much good when he himself had always been weighted in chains? It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

The system he fought for, the  ~~ masters he loved ~~ superiors he obeyed… they were supposed to be the good guys.

“This is wrong.” Echo whispered.

“How did we miss it?”

They all stared at each other. Everyone in the room was a brother, except for Ahsoka—though she might as well have been their  _ vod’ika _ . Everyone knew what it meant to be coded, to be ruled over, to be subordinate. Everyone knew what it felt like to strain on a leash, have it choke you with a sharp yank. 

But no one could even imagine…  _ that _ . No one could imagine  _ living how the general lived _ . Ceaseless pain. (Grin and bear it).

They talked with him. They fought with him. They laughed and breathed the same air as him. How could they have missed it? Blast, looking back, hadn’t the signs been clear? The tense shoulders, the strained smile, the tight lines around his eyes, the crossed arms, the fisted hands, the strange way he limped some days—despite his valiant effort to hide in a long stride—having sustained no injury at all.

How could all of them have missed that?

It wasn’t the general’s fault; he really was the worst at keeping secrets, if Senator Amidala was any indication. There was no way he’d been able to keep his bondage a secret from an entire battalion of slaves. So why hadn’t they picked up the hints? The indications? The red flags? Why had they  _ missed _ it?

Maybe they didn’t want to believe. 

Admitting that the general, that Skywalker, that  _ Ekkreth _ had been a slave before them all… was a painful, devastating thing. (The trickster. The slave who makes free. He had them all fooled, didn’t he?)

But now there was no denying it. Word would spread within the hour, if it hadn’t already. No doubt the rest of the clones knew by now, and it wouldn’t be long before the nats were in the loop too. Everyone in the 501st would know that Anakin had a slave chip in his back, that he’d been nothing more than a pet of the Jedi.

No, it was a little too late to deny it.

But… they weren’t quite ready to accept it either. It wouldn’t be just. It wouldn’t be fair. What came after denial?

Suddenly, Ahsoka shot to her feet, eyes alight. She shouldn’t stand so quickly. Water was still leaking from her face, and the headache must be loud after the previous state she’d been in, but no one had the gall to stop her.

Rex jumped up in the same second as the commander. How funny, the way they moved in sync. He held his arms out half extended, just to catch her if she fell. Though, she looked surprisingly steady. Drying tears made her face shine. They pooled in the valleys of her skin as it bunched and twisted, making her face a powerful glare, cerulean glow like a blue giant of starlight. Her gaze travelled around the room.

“We need to do something.” She insisted. Her voice was raw, and it shook. Nevertheless, determination and profound adamance dripped off every word. Who was going to stop her? No one was stopping her. Kix wasn’t disappointed.

“We have to do something about this.”

Rex was the first one to nod, warm eyes hot with the same fire.

Kix watched as everyone else gave their reply. Yes, something should be done.

_ This is anger _ . He decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is moving slowly. The plot points seem to be growing further apart the more I write :’)


End file.
